


Won't Stop Dreaming of Him...ever

by brokenlibrarygirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Mild Language, Nightmares, Obsession, One-Sided Relationship, Post Reichenbach, Trying to Forget, can't stop thinking of him, crush maybe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlibrarygirl/pseuds/brokenlibrarygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the years Sherlock was away John had nightmares about him. His psychologist offered him pills so the nightmares would stop and every single time John would say "I can’t." So she would ask "Why?" and then John would whisper "Because it's only through my nightmares that I get to see his face again"</p><p>Inspired by the above prompt from an anonymous submission to <a href="http://ughbenedict.tumblr.com/">ughbenedict</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Won't Stop Dreaming of Him...ever

Sherlock my best friend was dead. I watched and listened as he jump off the roof of St. Barts. I saw his broken blood covered body on the ground with no pulse. His intelligent and often angry eyes open and blank. He was gone and I was alone again. 

With him gone my nightmares and my limp were back and in turn, Ella was back in my life again as well.

_I was so alone and I owe you so much_

Things I wanted to say but couldn’t. That I missed the man with every cell of my being. That I had to move back to the bedsit cause I couldn’t afford 221b on my own. That I was looking at my gun again as a familiar friend.

All I want is to see is Sherlock again. Even if all I ever see of him again is his frantic body falling onto the ground. His bloody and broken body on the sidewalk. 

Every night the darkness of my thoughts pulls me under into a restless sleep. I try to put it off as long as possible knowing that in less than five hours I will be up again, covered in sweat, my heart rate thundering with anxiety.

The dreams would always start with something simple and domestic. I would be placing a cup of tea at Sherlock’s elbow or watching him stomp over the coffee table to pin something to the wall as part of case, or us running down a suspect down dark alleys.

Then we would be through a door, around a corner, or around a curtain and I would be strapped with semtex with the smell of chlorine in my nose, tied to a chair, or watching him from the street. It would end in death and blood, it always did. 

_one more miracle_

I both hated and looked forward to the the dreams. The introductory calm of Sherlock’s presence was almost enough to balance out the terror that followed.

Ella noticed the dark bags under my eyes finally after our fifth meeting,

“John how are you sleeping?” she asked with a kind smile and a nod of her head.

“Oh..I sleep..a few hours a night.” I grimace trying not to lie.

“What do you think is causing your lack of sleep?” she asks probably knowing the answer.

“The usual...nightmares...stress” I sigh rubbing my eyes. She read the papers, saw the relentless attacks on Sherlock’s character and our falsely implied relationship.

“John...are you dreaming of Afghanistan again?” she tries. I huff out a laugh knowing she is trying to manipulate me.

“You know that’s not what I’m having nightmares about. I dream of Sherlock..dying..every...single...night” I huff.

“John...are you keeping up with your blog?” she asks

“No...nothing happens to me anymore” I sigh.

“Would you be...receptive to keeping a dream journal?” she asks raising an eyebrow.

“What for? Death and Sherlock it is on a continuous loop.” I sneer.

“John there is a medication I could give you to help...with the nightmares” she starts fiddling with her pen.

“NO!” I blurt not wanting to erase the last of Sherlock from my subconscious even with the lack of sleep.

“Why not John. You need to sleep. You need to distance yourself from your obsession with Sherlock Holmes” she presses.

“I can’t” I wince, ashamed at the grip I have on anything to do with Sherlock.

“Why?” She presses again. Her eyes are soft, her posture open and comforting. There is no true confrontation in her question other than the true need to know. I sigh and blink. I press the heel of my palms against my eyes as I make my admission.

"Because it's only through my nightmares that I get to see his face again" I whisper with a hitch in my voice. I knew she was jotting notes of _unrequited love, survivors guilt, ptsd has returned, sexual identity crisis_ on her iPAD and I couldn’t give a flying fuck. I missed Sherlock Holmes, I always would. It was too soon, too raw. I needed to remember and then forget, medication would only make it worse.

“John. You need to sleep. You need to heal” Ella nods.  
“I will. I’ll fix myself just like I did before. Still has trust issues right?” I chuckle.

“John. I’d feel better if you took this. Please, try.” she says holding out the prescription. I sigh knowing the need to heal and help someone who was hurting or damage. I took it without a word and left, walking away I know I will never fill it.


End file.
